Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who's the book by?""Joseph Emery Prank. 'Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square.
Pray the saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset--the sunset of Italy. Under Orcagna's Loggia--the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call it now--'"Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's Miss Lavish! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebody else's name.""Who may Miss Lavish be?"
"Oh, a dreadful person--Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands.
George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at Summer Street. It was she who told me that you lived here.""Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when he bent down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean something else. She watched his head, which was almost resting against her knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder the novel's bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one ought to read it as one's met her.""All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoyed at her inattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "Every one writes for money in these days.""Oh, Cecil--!"
"It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups and downs in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She had dwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer to the clang of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black head again. She did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting to stroke it; the sensation was curious.
"How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?""I never notice much difference in views.""What do you mean?"
"Because they're all alike. Because all that matters in them is distance and air.""H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or not.
"My father"--he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)--"says that there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky straight over our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies of it.""I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil, fingering the novel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation.
"He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of trees and houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other, like human crowds--and that the power they have over us is sometimes supernatural, for the same reason."Lucy's lips parted.
"For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets added to it--no one knows how--just as something has got added to those hills."He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs.
"What a splendid idea!" she murmured. "I shall enjoy hearing your father talk again. I'm so sorry he's not so well.""No, he isn't well."
"There's an absurd account of a view in this book," said Cecil.
"Also that men fall into two classes--those who forget views and those who remember them, even in small rooms.""Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?""None. Why?"
"You spoke of 'us.'"
"My mother, I was meaning."
Cecil closed the novel with a bang.
"Oh, Cecil--how you made me jump!"
"I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer.""I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day and seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that Iremember."
Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred--he hadn't put on his coat after tennis--he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not stopped him.
"Cecil, do read the thing about the view.""Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us.""No--read away. I think nothing's funnier than to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go."This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.
"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book.
Cecil must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention wandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr.
Eager--had been murdered in the sight of God according to her son--had seen as far as Hindhead.
"Am I really to go?" asked George.
"No, of course not really," she answered.
"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn't bothering you."Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.
She thought she had gone mad.
"Here--hand me the book."
She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too silly to read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to be printed."He took the book from her.
"'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The season was spring.'"Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for George to hear.
"'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved Antonio stole up behind her--'"Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.
He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'""This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them. "there is another much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.
"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.
She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last.
She thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path.
"No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.
As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her;they reached the upper lawn alone.
